Unfathomable Depths, Unrealised Dreams
by Curreeus
Summary: Holmes and Watson know that there are unspoken feelings between them, though neither is sure they are reciprocated…and neither has attempted to address how deep these emotions run until Watson's wedding. Slash.
1. Illogical yet Unavoidable

**Summary: Holmes and Watson know that there are unspoken feelings between them, though neither is sure they are reciprocated…and neither has attempted to address how deep these emotions run until Watson's wedding.**

**Slash… but if you didn't want it you wouldn't be here.**

**A/N I've edited out the Authors Notes (doesn't that make this ironic?) because they were ridiculously long and didn't apply anymore. FYI.**

**~oOo~**

Holmes was unsure when his regard for Watson had grown into anything other than friendship. He knew that it was bordering on obsession, if it wasn't there already, but he didn't care. All he knew was that, however illogical it was, he was transfixed by his Watson; his features, his face especially, and his voice like music sweeter than any he'd ever heard.

He liked calling him 'his' Watson. It made him seem more real, in a way.

He felt as if watching him was all he would ever need to do in order to be occupied when there was no case; being with him, spending time with him was a guilty pleasure, for he often found his thoughts drifting onto subjects like how well proportioned and graceful he was, besides his limp and shoulder wounds,. At times he felt the desire to be near him so strong, so primal that he could almost not deny it. At those times, unknown to Watson, he would entertain fancies he would never disclose to anyone, and if it was night, creep into his room and watch him sleep, a smile gracing his features as he observed the man he needed so desperately, who was so calm and peaceful in sleep.

The one urge that was becoming more and more prominent the more time he spent with Watson was the need to be close to him. He wanted to simply embrace him and never let go, so he could breath him in; his singular scent that was a mix of anaesthetic from his practise, the aroma of well worn clothes (no matter how clean clothes were kept, they always picked up a scent of their own), and a musk that was simply…Watson. He felt as if the world was somehow darker when Watson wasn't present, and as soon as he heard the mans light tenor voice call his name, whether it be in exasperation or simply greeting, he felt shivers wander down his spine.

And so when Watson announced he was to be wed to Mary Morstan, Holmes had never felt such rage, jealousy, envy, or pure hate race through his veins. Before he'd even found out more than just her name, though it was uncharacteristic of him, he had a deep seated loathing for her. She was stealing his Watson, his Boswell, and his closest friend, and although he hated such melodrama, he literally felt as though his chest had been torn open, his heart ripped out and as though it were made of glass, shattered into innumerable pieces.

Watson was the cause and the remedy.

Holmes felt that if only Watson would tell him he had changed his mind, he was staying with him, and then took Holmes into his arms and embraced him; he would be alright and be immediately healed. He wanted to tell Watson that he was and could be all that Watson was looking for – a steadfast companion, a dependable partner…he would even happily be a lover, if Watson needed it…

But he knew Watson's ideals, those damned things that society pressed upon them, would not allow it. And even worse, he was fairly sure that Watson himself would be disgusted by it. So Holmes found himself in ever increasing bouts of worry over what he would do when Watson was gone and his life was empty. Even if he had a case every day, it would never make up for Watson's absence.

He felt powerless to stop something he knew wasn't right in the first place.

Because although he had a startlingly small amount of experience, he knew Watson couldn't marry Mary. He did not love her.

He knew that Watson couldn't marry Mary because his soul mate, in an unexpected form, had been in his sights for years, and was simply waiting for him.

So Holmes made up his mind to take the miniscule chance offered to him and convince Watson to stay, no matter what cost, be it his cocaine habits, his general lack of tidiness, and foremost, if needed, his security in keeping his feelings hidden. He would gladly get rid of his right arm for Watson. It's not like he'd need the damn thing when Watson was everything already, and would more than make up for its absence.


	2. The Heart or the Head

**Summary: Holmes and Watson know that there are unspoken feelings between them, though neither is sure they are reciprocated…and neither has attempted to address how deep these emotions run until Watson's wedding.**

**Slash… but if you didn't want it you wouldn't be here.**

**~oOo~**

Watson was tormented inside, no matter how smooth he seemed on the surface. He felt cornered by decisions, unable to make one for fear of disordering his life and throwing it into chaos. So he was hanging in a precarious balance. He wanted to marry Mary, but he wanted to stay with Holmes, and he couldn't decide which would be more beneficial.

He loved Holmes. He'd always loved Holmes, and yearned to be near him always, be the one to comfort him when things didn't go as planned, be the one to stitch him up when he was torn (both literally and figuratively), and the one to hold him and make things better when they weren't going well, when the cocaine was gone and withdrawal was enough to make him shiver with inactivity and grind his teeth with boredom.

He knew that Holmes and he were a complete entity together – Holmes gave Watson a thrill he couldn't gain from anyone else, a sense of being needed, and he made him feel young and alive every time they were on a case together. He knew that he gave Holmes an anchor to cling to when he was lost in his own brilliance, a sense of calm that balanced Holmes' frenzied emotions when they were running high. That was what had made them so successful over the years they'd known each other.

Watson also knew this applied to them in more than one aspect. If he were ever to give into his inner urges and confess how he really felt to Holmes, that would most likely lead to something more, and if that happened, there was no turning back. He would be counted as one of the criminals of London; an unnatural creature that wasn't right. He knew that this was wrong, affection of this breed; affection felt this strongly shouldn't exist between two men, and he was earning himself a place in Hell for entertaining such fantasies about Holmes and himself, but he was far past the point of being able to stop it. Or caring, even. His rational sense told him all of this, but something inside was constantly pressuring, assuring him that this was right, in a way; that something that meant this much to him couldn't be wrong.

But his rational side always took precedence, because he knew if he listened to his heart he would land himself in deep, irreversible trouble. He was marrying Mary because she was a good friend, though she could never hope to understand him as thoroughly as Holmes did, and vice versa. He wanted to escape the constant worry that someone would guess what he felt for Holmes, and the constant pressure of being unable to confess to someone that you are irrevocably in love with them, and the worry that being this drawn to another man was not good for him, both socially and in regards to his health. Mary's arms seemed open and welcoming and most of all uncontroversial, a pleasant change from the worry of his evolving friendship with Holmes (It was far beyond simple friendship now.). Over the time he had befriended and then come to intimately know Mary, he had blockheadedly tried to convince himself that he was in love with her.

Because deeply, he knew he wasn't.

He knew that if he was in love with Mary, there was no description possible for what he felt for Holmes. He knew that if handholds, mild admiration and walks together was what love consisted of, then knowing another so well you could guess what they were about to say; feeling happy and light-headed just being with them; going anywhere with them without questioning why…that was something beyond love. Yet to him it seemed more pure than obsession.

It was simply a need. As if Holmes were a part of him he couldn't simply amputate and remove.

Not that he'd want to.


	3. A Firm Grasp of the Obvious

**Summary: Holmes and Watson know that there are unspoken feelings between them, though neither is sure they are reciprocated…and neither has attempted to address how deep these emotions run until Watson's wedding.**

**Slash… but if you didn't want it you wouldn't be here.**

As Watson spent his last few weeks at Baker Street, he could feel tension mounting between himself and Holmes. Holmes eventually just locked himself in his room, refusing to come out. If he saw Watson packing, or heard Mary's name, he would stiffen, and his features would gain a hard, cold edge to them. He would look away from Watson, his face hidden, as if he couldn't look at Watson's face. They barely spoke.

Watson was starting to become somewhat of an insomniac. He would toss around under the covers, his mind seeming to contain a freight train that refused to slow down.

On the third night of this, he heard creaking from the next room; Holmes' room, and heard the man's unsure feet pad down the hallway. He heard scuffling in the sitting room, then Holmes returned to his room, his prize (What that was he didn't know) gained. Minutes later he heard the incessant plucking of a violin, and he sighed. Holmes' wasn't sleeping either, though that wasn't surprising.

Some minutes later the plucking fell silent, and then the strains of a well played violin could be heard through the wall.

Watson's eyes slid closed. The last time he'd heard Holmes play in this fashion (not simply plucking) was when he'd played for Watson, trying to serenade him into staying at Baker Street. It had failed. Watson had felt as if he'd severed his own heartstrings as he heard what seemed like a stranger's voice tell Holmes that he wouldn't be staying. That he couldn't.

Holmes had not come out of his room for a month.

When he had emerged, he was wearing the same clothes he'd gone in there wearing (only several shades darker from the filth they had acquired) and he'd smelt repulsively of cocaine.

Eventually, his ears filled with a soaring melody of Holmes own composition, he drifted into

the only peaceful sleep he'd had in a fortnight.

The months leading up to the Blackwood Case were, for Holmes, the loneliest he'd ever experienced.

Watson had packed most of his belongings into the boxes strewn about their shared abode, and Holmes had been the most emotional he'd been since adolescence. He had barely been able to hold back tears and had turned his face away as he'd seen Watson put away books, clothes…everything. He felt as if Watson were preparing to disappear without a trace, leaving him… empty. In a particularly fierce fit of anxiety, he had found one of the clothes boxes littered around their shared sitting room in the middle of the night and raided it. The contents lay stowed away at the back of his own cluttered wardrobe, ready to be made reminders of Watson's once so close proximity to Holmes. He knew they would still carry Watson's individual scent on them, however odd that appeared or sounded. That was the precise reason he'd stolen them.

He just hoped Watson wouldn't find out and demand them back, because he was perfectly aware that Watson was still wide awake and would have heard him moving the box.

Absentmindedly and lost in thought after this act, he'd fingered his violin, plucking chords, eventually a very staccato tune. But it did nothing to appease the need to be lost in something. He wanted to walk next door, to lose himself in all the sensations he got from being close to Watson, but instead he found his fingers fumbling for the bow, the same fingers then nimbly playing an air he had composed for Watson a few months ago, when Watson had announced he had been leaving. He'd never played it for him, though, indecision being the main factor. He wasn't sure if it had seemed too sentimental for one man to be doing for another, and he feared that Watson would catch onto his intentions and distance himself from Holmes. Holmes didn't know if he could put up with Watson's absence any more than he needed to.

The tune was legato and pianissimo, and eventually he heard the creaking from Watson's bed cease, and he gathered that the man had fallen asleep. He smiled. At least Watson had heard it, and he liked it, or else he would have stormed into his room and demanded that he stop playing. It brought him some sort of peace knowing that the man he was in love with was feeling some sort of peace, and Holmes had brought that to him. Comforted, he lay down and closed his eyes, his worries fading into a dim haze as he imagined Watson falling asleep to one of his own pieces of music.

The Blackwood Case, to Holmes, seemed pivotal in his relationship with Watson. It had been their last case together, or so Watson had said, and Holmes had worked through it half- heartedly. He and Watson had apprehended Lord Blackwood, and the man had supposedly hung, so that was it for him. He'd retreated to his room and hadn't come out for three weeks, absence of cases and Watson combined throwing him into despair.

He was still at a loss of what to do.

Finally, when his experimenting for gunshot silencers became too rowdy for the household, Watson had come into his room and thrown open the curtains. The physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional pain he felt when Watson had invited him out to the Royale, then revealed that Mary was coming.

Nothing had changed. Watson was still getting married, Mary was still stealing him, there was no case, and the world had gone on turning without him. It was somewhat depressing.

More of a conversational prompt than anything else, he paused, words slipping out of his mouth.

"Have you proposed yet?" He said, turning slowly and raising his eyebrows.

Watson shifted, then closing his eyes, answered. "No, I haven't found the right ring."

Hope, however ridiculous it was, flared inside him. "Well then it's not official…"

"It's happening. Whether you like it or not. 8:30, the Royale. Wear a jacket…"

His voice was fading as he walked off down the hallway.

"You wear a jacket," Holmes countered petulantly.

Watson had sounded very sure about this, despite his distinct lack of a ring. Holmes wasn't sure if that meant what he thought it had. That Watson wasn't as sure as he once was about his marriage to Mary. Maybe there was still a chance for him, however small. Perhaps.

At the end of the case, Holmes was despairing. Watson had moved all of his belongings out of Baker Street, and he and Mary were preparing to move in together. He didn't know if there was any hope left.

During their night in the local lockup together, Holmes had felt closer to Watson than he had for a while. After all, they'd been on a case together, and they'd been like brothers again. He had even slept on the man's shoulder! Lost in some form of bliss, he hadn't wanted to wake up.

The explosion in Nine Elms, had opened his eyes. Watson had almost been lost to him. The man was too precious to him for that to happen. He had to at least make his feelings known, give it a chance between him and Watson. Even if he turned away, turned him in (although he thought that uncharacteristic of Watson), it would be better than endless indecision. He would know how Watson felt. And Watson would know how Holmes felt.

In the lockup, he'd gotten a sense that Watson was still somewhat unsure about his marriage, despite the looming date overhead. He seemed angry when he had gone with Holmes instead of tea with Mary's parents, and although it was no-one's fault but his own, he had blamed Holmes. Holmes could not tell what for, but his theory was that Watson felt as if he needed to protect Holmes, and would prioritise it above anything else. That comforted him, and although it was insufficient data to construct a theory on, when depraved, anything will sound plausible.

So he decided to seize the moment while it was offered to him. He had to make Watson see what should have already have been blaringly obvious.

**For those who are unsure about musical terms or Italian: Staccato means short and detached, legato means smooth and well-connected and pianissimo means very quiet. **


	4. Be Gentle With Me

**Summary: Holmes and Watson know that there are unspoken feelings between them, though neither is sure they are reciprocated…and neither has attempted to address how deep these emotions run until Watson's wedding.**

**Slash… but if you didn't want it you wouldn't be here.**

Watson, on his last night in Baker Street, had been restless. He didn't want to leave Holmes, and he was afraid of that. He had attempted to organise everything into too precarious a structure for it to fail now – he had to go through with his marriage.

Except now he was having doubts and second thoughts.

He was sure now. He didn't love Mary. She was his friend, yes, but he did not love her in the way he was supposed to – the way she loved him. Or the way he loved Holmes. The Blackwood Case had changed Holmes, if only minimally. He now observed Watson with eyes that silently pleaded. For what Watson could tell without asking – for him to stay. He desperately wanted to say yes, but he was afraid.

Afraid that he would let go of his sense of right and wrong, the line of which was so blurred in this area anyway he didn't know what to do.

Escape seemed like the only viable option.

He knew he would be running from possibly the most burning desire he'd ever known, and that he was making himself miserable, but fear creates terrible creatures out of men.

His insomniac qualities had returned, despite their apparent quelling since Holmes' show with his violin and he was simply lying in bed, as wide awake as if it were midday.

He wished he could just admit himself to someone.

Someone who wouldn't turn him in, but instead would welcome him; tell him what to do…

His mind cleared of all thoughts as he heard Holmes' bed next door creak suddenly and the door to his room open. Holmes' feet padded softly down the hallway, and then stopped in front of his door. The doorknob turned gently, almost silently but for the grating sound of the catch sliding away.

Holmes was in his room.

He wondered why, when he heard Holmes place himself gently in the chair in the corner of the room, and sigh. Why was Holmes in his room? Could he possibly be sleepwalking?

Holmes made no sound for the next few minutes, and Watson had nearly lost himself in other thoughts when a chair leg scraped the floor. He heard Holmes' feet padded across the room - towards the bed.

Watson, frozen with anticipation, felt the covers lift for a few seconds, then felt a warm presence against his back. Holmes had climbed into bed with him.

He felt the other man sigh, then felt two warm arms wrap around his waist. Holmes had climbed into bed with him and had his arms around him.

Why was he so hot all of a sudden? He was burning with heat, with warmth not borne from fire or sunlight, but rather from the blush spreading across his cheeks. Holmes sighed again, and his face pressed into Watson's shoulder. He could feel the smile on Holmes lips against his shoulder blade.

And Watson felt a smile of his own creep onto his face. There was warmth all over him- there was a metaphorical ember in his belly, and he realised what it was.

He was finally content.

He was finally happy. He felt insanely elated at the fact that Sherlock Holmes was in his bed and had his arms around his waist. That he was so close he could feel more than see him breathing.

He felt more at peace than he had in several weeks, and he had no idea why. Surely Holmes, even though he was his close friend and Watson did, to an extent, love him, couldn't have this much of an effect on him. He was confused, but he was far too tired and…elated… to worry now.

Sighing, tired of thinking, he turned over, so that his chest was bumping Holmes'. He shuddered, despite the warmth he felt, and his foolish grin grew wider as he wrapped his arms around Holmes' chest, pulling him closer. He rested his head on the pillow so that his nose was barely an inch from Holmes' and he could feel the warmth of his breath on his face. Again he shuddered – his breath smelt of tea, scotch, and something he wasn't sure he wanted to identify, and Holmes himself smelt inevitably of…

Home. Familiarity. What could, in his life, be considered constant and normal.

As strange as it sounded, Sherlock Holmes and everything one could associate with him had been one of the only constant presences in his life for the past few years. And he wouldn't have changed a single second of it. He sighed, his eyes slipping closed, upcoming events forgotten. He heard nothing but silence, and Holmes' and his own synchronised breathing, and his mind began to drift, lost in the sensations of the present... Holmes' gentle breath on his face, his calloused hands wrapped around his torso, and generally just his presence.

He felt comforted, and in his subconsciousness, all that mattered to Watson was now.

Holmes had not really planned, but rather decided to go with the turn of events that would occur when Watson discovered that Holmes was in his room. He hadn't intended it to go any further than simply sitting there, maybe having a conversation. He knew that Watson hadn't been asleep, and he was fairly sure it was because of his conflicting emotions. Holmes didn't have much experience in that area, but he knew that the best time to attempt to convince Watson would be when he was unsure.

Like now, for instance.

So Holmes, uncharacteristically unrehearsed and without a plan, padded down the hall and into Watson's room.

Sparing a glance for the figure on the bed, Holmes drifted over to the chair by the window and settled into it, one leg drawn up so his head could rest on his knee. He sighed.

The room still nostalgically felt like Watson's room – It had the same odour about it, the same colour on the walls, and Watson was sleeping, or pretending to sleep, in the bed. But the possessions were gone, and it had been stripped of all the excess furniture (not that Watson had ever had much). His thoughts turned venomous when he reminded himself why this was.

Mary.

His teeth ground themselves involuntarily against each other when he thought of her accursed name. It made him feel nauseous as a poisonous mix of hate and dismay flared and he barely caught the gasp that attempted to force its way between his teeth. In a sudden burst of spite towards Mary, to prove that Watson was HIS, he jerked out of the chair and strode over to the bed purposefully, only to be drained of enthusiasm when he realised what he'd been planning to do would be considered unorthodox by Watson. He paused momentarily as he took in Watson's still form, lying with his back towards him. And his heart seemed to skip a beat when he realised there was almost nothing stopping him in his next manoeuvre.

Gently, so as to not shock Watson, though he was sure he had anyway, he lifted the covers just enough to admit himself, and then slipped in next to him.

It was pleasant in the cocoon of warmth that Watson had, and sighing with contentment, Holmes wrapped his hands around the mans waist and pulled himself closer, burying his face in Watson's shoulder blade and receiving a wave of the smell so familiar it was like arriving home after an impossibly long spell away. A smile crept onto his face against Watson's nightshirt, and through that, his skin.

Watson, who had been somewhat tense the whole time Holmes had been doing this, had relaxed quite noticeably. His next action made Holmes giddy with elation.

Watson sighed, and rolled over so that Holmes' face was pulled off of his shoulder blade and fell onto the pillow next to Watson's. Holmes almost gasped again as two strong arms wound their way around his chest and pulled him closer, so Watson and he were sharing breaths, their faces inches from each others. He did not fail to notice that while Watson's eyes were closed there was a smile on his face unlike any Holmes had seen for a while. Comforted, wrapped in a blanket of happiness, he finally began to succumb to sleep, the fickle creature that evaded him so often, but came so easily when he was situated like he was, with HIS Watson, the one he needed, so close to him. All thoughts of Mary were banished as he possessively clutched Watson tight and darkness crept over his mind like a cover, printing this memory in his dreams for days to come.

Watson woke before Holmes the next morning, and, upon remembering how he'd gotten there, a blush darkened his cheekbones as he tried to suppress his smile. He had soon paled when he remembered that he still had a wedding date being held over him like a threatening mallet, and there was now no way to avoid that, despite what he and Holmes felt, never mind the fact that it was also as illegal as the crimes they so commonly solved. Watson suddenly felt as though there were thousands of pairs of eyes watching and judging him. Preoccupied, upon leaving the bed he mechanically went through his morning routine, and then left Baker Street, the environment of London and reality seeming cold and uncaring.

Holmes, waking somewhat later, had awoken to cold sheets, an empty bed and a sense of failure. Watson was gone. He would not be sleeping in Baker Street anymore. And despite his apparent liking of the situationlast night, Watson had left him.

He was alone.

The one who understood him, his Watson, had been effectively stolen by Mary, utterly and completely. There was almost no hope for his situation now.

Holmes eyes lifted from the empty space next to him, and began to search for a Moroccan case and the salvation of the cocaine within.


	5. Irretrievably and Irrevocably

**Summary: Holmes and Watson know that there are unspoken feelings between them, though neither is sure they are reciprocated…and neither has attempted to address how deep these emotions run until Watson's wedding.**

**Slash… but if you didn't want it you wouldn't be here.**

**~oOo~**

Holmes had attended Watson's wedding, if only out of common courtesy to his friend, and to not disappoint him.

He certainly didn't attend because he was happy about it. Of course he wasn't.

He hadn't slipped in the double doors of the church, sparing a narrowed glance at the vicar trying in vain to close it, and then sat in the last pew because he was happy that Mary was stealing Watson.

He had not sat there because he was happy that Mary, in her silk and tulle wedding dress, was beaming a smile at Watson that held nothing but pure adoration for him. It was all he could do to keep seated and not march right up to her to wipe the smile from her face by telling her that Watson did not love her.

Of course he didn't.

The evidence was right there in the front of the church, for everyone to see if they would- in the shaky smile that Watson gave to Mary, before giving the rows of pews a searching gaze, finally spotting Holmes in the back and giving a real smile.

Holmes found one slipping onto his face in earnest reply to Watson's before the man was turned towards the front in order to pay attention to the celebrants opening line – "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

Holmes, growing increasingly agitated, had squirmed slightly as the ceremony approached the vows, and his hands had relentlessly twitched and twisted in his lap. Then, as though through a haze, he heard Mary's voice ring out clearly and confidently through the church, speaking the words that bound her to the man standing next to her.

"I do."

Watson would have to reciprocate those exact words. Holmes couldn't do this. He couldn't sit here and hear Watson sign himself away to Mary with two words carrying what was fate of three lives.

And so, acutely aware that Watson had turned to him, he slipped his way out of the pew and sidled over to the door, his hand resting on the handle. It was more difficult than he thought it would be, but without permitting himself a backward glance, he pushed open the door and slipped through the narrow gap created.

Head immersed in thoughts of Watson, hands in his coat pockets, Holmes was halfway to Baker Street before he realised, his feet unconsciously taking him to his usual haunt.

Holmes stopped himself, knowing that only empty rooms, cold memories and his Moroccan case lurked there.

None seemed appealing at present. None would effectively dull the pain.

Instead, in a string of twisted logic, he turned his feet towards the boxing matches he frequented. Physical pain seemed like the only option to dull the emotional, as well as occupying his mind with something other than Watson. A case would have been his first choice, but as they weren't as readily available, the boxing ring and bruises within held the most solace at present.

…

Watson tried to swallow, only to find his mouth felt as if it had been recently filled with sand. He saw Holmes slip out the door, and his stomach felt as if it had fallen through the floor. The ministers' voice echoed in his ears, the only words he could hear clearly were the names.

"John Watson…take Mary Morstan…"

_No. _

Those words didn't seem right. They didn't fit. Not in the way everyone expected them to. Not in the way Sherlock Holmes and John Watson did.

He couldn't marry Mary. He couldn't put himself, Holmes and Mary through the pain of an unhappy, loveless and ill-suited marriage.

The minister's voice stopped, and Watson turned back from the door to face Mary, who looked up at him with an expectant expression. As the silence grew longer, the smile fell, and her face took on a woeful expression.

"I…I…I'm sorry, Mary. I…can't. I can't do this right now. I'm sorry to do this to you, but I can't go through with this."

Watson turned, and tried to wipe her downfallen face from his mind, tried to ignore the whispers that turned into the murmur of outraged conversation, tried to ignore the stares he knew he was getting. He just walked straight to the door and stepped out in the same fashion that Holmes had, moments before.

Outside, he just walked, with no destination in mind, just anywhere away from the church and those within. Although most of the guests were Mary's and when she left him after this he'd never see them again, he couldn't stop the heat of shame creeping up his neck and onto his face and ears.

He didn't want to have to suffer these problems alone anymore. He didn't want to be someone he wasn't for everyone else; the one expected to be calm and collected permanently.

He just wanted someone who would just allow him to _be,_who was grateful for his protective nature rather than expecting it of him, the eternally long-suffering doctor.

His parents were gone, as was his brother, and he had no other relatives. His friends were sparse and few and far between. He could only think of one person who he could turn to, even though when he thought about it that person was the most ridiculous choice.

He had to go see Holmes.

If for nothing else, for clarification on what he should do, how Holmes felt at present.

So determinedly, he turned his feet towards his old lodgings and started to walk.

…

Holmes returned to Baker Street several hours later. He did not know exactly how long, but the sky outside was black as pitch, helped along by the fact that any stars or the moon were obscured by cloud, so it was sometime past five o'clock.

Holmes was broken.

Both physically and mentally.

The battering he had taken had done nothing to remove the pain he felt from Watson's absence. The only things of worth he had taken from his bout in the boxing ring were bruises and pain; he had lost the winnings through his distraction.

Holmes had expected to come home to solitude; an empty house. He had expected Watson to be in Cavendish Place, enjoying his wedding night with his _bride_, his thoughts far from Holmes.

So Holmes froze as he opened the door to his rooms and saw a _very_ familiar figure seated in one of the chairs strewn haphazardly about the room. The figure's shoulders were hunched and their head was bowed, their hands out on top of a gold tipped cane that was propped before them as if they needed it for support.

This was the first thing he noticed.

The second was that the figures' hands, lit by the sliver of light let in by the open door, looked exactly as he remembered them. There was no gold band adorning the third finger on the left hand.

Holmes' heart lifted, but sank when Watson raised his head and revealed a face that looked ten years older than it was due to the exhausted dark ringed eyes.

"Watson…?" said Holmes curiously, closing the door as Watson stood, then lighting the lamp in the corner of the room. When he had accomplished this, he turned to Watson expectantly, waiting for him to explain his presence. Silence reigned for a long moment.

Then, finally, Watson spoke.

"Holmes…I am at a loss as to how to explain myself. As you have no doubt noticed, I am not even collected enough to go through with my marriage. And the reason…is my friendship with you."

Holmes nodded, trying not to let the bewilderment and incessant hope show on his face. He was unsure whether Watson was about to break down in tears, hit him, or walk out on him without another word. His hands incessantly tightening and loosening on his cane, Watson continued in a voice that he was attempting and failing to keep steady.

"It's not because you disapprove of Mary, and it's not because you desperately want me to stay with you. It's not anything to do with your opinions or actions. It's me."

Holmes nodded, showing he was attentive, and looked down. He'd never noticed how interesting the carpet pattern was…

"I…I don't know what it is. I don't even know why I'm back here. I feel…confused, and you're not the best person to speak to about this nor would you understand, but Holmes, you're the only one I can… relate to, I believe."

Holmes looked back up at Watson, taking his hands from behind his back to pick up the violin that was so conveniently positioned on a low table on top of an unstacked pile of paper.

Watson's expression was one of anguish. Sighing, he cleared his throat, placing his cane on the seat he had, until recently, occupied.

"Holmes…I… I'm not sure how to explain it, but I think… I'm… I can't believe I'm saying this." He paused and dropped his head to his hands. He resumed speaking, although he kept his head in his hands.

"I think…I'm in love with you."

Holmes' heart soared. A smile flew onto his face, and he moved closer to Watson, placing the unused violin down again and reaching to take his hands from his features.

"Watson…" he said softly, unsure of how to handle the conversation with enough gentleness as the situation called for. He cleared his throat nervously, hoping he wouldn't ruin this perfect moment with the wrong words, and dropped his hands to his sides.

"I should probably turn you in, so the officials can lock you away in a cell somewhere," he began softly, cringing inwardly at the crudeness of his words.

Watson nodded, slipping his hands sideways so his face was still covered in an almost childish way with his arms. Holmes almost threw his arms around him, it was so endearing, save for the usual restraint he had on emotions.

"I should. But I'm not going to do anything of the sort."

Holmes tentatively reached up his hands to grip Watson's own and bring them down to waist level, locking Watson's deep blue gaze with his own before the other man could look away. Captured, Watson just stared into Holmes' eyes, remaining silent, but clearly not expecting what Holmes said next.

"Because I'd be a terrible hypocrite, doing that to someone who feels the same way I do, and it would pain me far too much to see you locked up like some common animal."

Holmes took a minute step closer.

"And also…Because even though I've never felt anything akin to this before, so I have nothing to compare it to, and however impossible it sounds coming from me, Watson, I…I believe I am irretrievably, and irrevocably, in love with you also."

Silence reigned for one long moment, in which the two men stared at each other, not daring to move. It was like several hundred dreams being made manifest in one minute, for both of them, and the feeling of rapture was overwhelming. Then Watson broke the eye contact, levelling his gaze at the floor once again.

'Holmes I… I'm sorry. For what I've done to you… to us. I never imagined… That is, with Mary and all… I just… I never thought this would happen, and now I've really made a mess of things." He broke off, sighing. Holmes raised a hand to Watson's jaw, then used the leverage he gained to resume his eye contact.

"Watson, I don't want you to be discontent anymore. I just want you to be happy. I attempted to reconcile with myself that I would let you marry Mary if that's what you wanted, even though it tore me apart. But I couldn't…I still can't. I need you far more than is healthy. I am insanely elated that you are here, now, and we are having this conversation." Holmes stopped, biting his lip, unsure if he'd said too much. The words had just flowed; as if an imaginary stopper had been pulled from the bottle that was his emotions, and he'd just let them out. He shook his head, and continued, reasoning that he might as well finish.

"Because…you're content here and that…that is only natural. Why make yourself unhappy doing something unnecessary? Why keep her in your life at all? I…" He faltered, unsure if Watson would agree with what he was about to say.

Watson nodded, gesturing with a tilt of his head for Holmes to continue. Holmes smiled.

"You don't need her. I can be all you're looking for…all you need."

It was strange how he still couldn't bring himself to say her name, even now.

Watson's hands slipped out of Holmes' grasp at waist level to slide up to Holmes' shoulders. He smiled; his expression filled with simplistic joy, as he leant forward slightly, a precursor to his intentions.

"I know you can," he said, his tone having gained a confident edge, his eyes locked on Holmes dark orbs. "And that's all I want to be for you. If you need me, I'll be there. I can't do this to either of us any longer, nor can I hide what I feel for you."

The smile faded slowly, replaced by an expression of curiosity and disbelief at the fact that he was actually doing this as his train of thought faltered; distracted by the way the dim lighting of the room made Holmes' pupils wide and dilated…

Holmes leaned forward slightly as well, watching Watson's shining blue eyes flutter closed and his advance pause, his movements unsure. Holmes took a deep breath, and, hardly believing he was doing this, closed his eyes and covered the final space between their faces to press his lips gently to Watson's.

The contact was smooth and translucent, a whisper of skin as Holmes hands lifted to caress the back of Watson's neck oh-so-gently, the slight rasp of Watson's mustache on Holmes stubble, the smallest rustle of clothing as Watson moved his hands around the back of Holmes neck so he pulled him even closer, pressing their bodies together and deepening the kiss.

Even though it remained nothing but chaste, Holmes' heart was beating erratically, as if it would burst at any moment, and when Watson pulled back suddenly, coming to his senses and clearly shocked at what he had allowed himself to do, his hands were shaking from adrenaline.

"Holmes I…That is…I've wanted to do that for years but…this is illegal. It's a…well, for one it's a crime against the church, and-"

"You are obviously not as well versed in Christianity as you thought, Watson," said Holmes, cutting him off. He stepped back from Watson slightly so as to look him more directly in the eye and placed his hands on his hips in a dramatic flare of annoyance. "In the first letter of St Peter it clearly states that 'love covers over many sins.' "

"Yes, but I didn't think-"

"And so much of the Bible contradicts itself and is open to interpretation that I think it's utterly ridiculous to put so much belief in it. So please don't try and put that to me again."

"But Holmes-"

"Now am I correct in assuming that you will be staying the night? Because if so we must organise sleeping arrangements for you…"

"HOLMES!"

Holmes paused in his monologue, eyeing Watson with that expression of innocent nonchalance and inquiry only he could pull off. Watson took a step closer.

"I was only concerned whether you would mind breaking the law or not, as so much of your life revolves around it. Because we already have, and somehow I don't think we'll be stopping there."

Holmes simply smiled and grasped Watson's hands again, fitting his fingers into the gaps between Watson's. They fit perfectly, like those gaps were made to accommodate Holmes' fingers.

"Of course not, my dear Watson. Sometimes it is most liberating to tread the thin line of the law, especially when you are involved."

Watson simply smiled. He had finally realised that Holmes, no matter if he were male or otherwise, was the one he would always be happy with, and to hell with the law.

So when they leaned into each other again, lips meeting in a decidedly less chaste fashion than before, Watson did not feel guilty.

When fingers twined in each others hair, tongues danced around each other and clothes were shed in haphazard piles around the room, Watson didn't feel guilty.

When they barely made it to the bed, instead nearly falling apart in each others embrace on the floor, Watson didn't feel guilty, he laughed.

When he woke up the next morning in Sherlock Holmes' bed after what could be described as the best night of his life so far, arms and legs entwined hopelessly in the other mans, Watson didn't feel guilty.

Instead he felt alive.

He felt sorry for Mary, although they rarely saw each other again, for having to go through what she did. At least he had someone else he could love and be loved by.

After tying up all the loose ends in his life left over from the failed marriage, he moved back into Baker Street. He'd honestly never seen that expression of radiant joy on Holmes face before.

He discovered that he and Holmes made a fine couple; they'd never been as close as they had been that first week after they became intimate, nor had they ever been as happy.

It began to become rare for them to wake up alone in a bed, more often than not the other was beside them, having become either cold or lonely at some point during the night.

Watson never regretted not marrying Mary, because he now had Holmes, who loved him more than anyone would think possible from the man, and he loved him back with equal vigor.

And all was right with the world.

**~oOo~**

**THE END**


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